Cate smiled, recalling the attraction simmering between her and Gregor a few nights ago. “Which only proves how little you know of enticing. You don’t have any idea what’s between us. If you don’t think I can do it, you are wrong!”
Seonaid’s eyes widened, hearing her confidence.
Suddenly Cate cringed. The conversation was deteriorating, leaving her feeling as if she needed to jump in the loch to wash. She shouldn’t stoop to Seonaid’s level, no matter how well baited.
Holding Maddy tightly, she swept regally past the three women before Seonaid could muster her verbal weaponry for another attack.
Cate had barely turned the corner into the churchyard where everyone had gathered when she ran into John and Farquhar. “There you are,” John said. “We wondered where you had gone to.”
Cate’s smile was strained; she felt drained from the episode with Seonaid and her friends. “Maddy needed to stretch her legs after the sermon.”
“It was rather a long one,” Farquhar said with an understanding smile.
The easygoing smile surprised her. The reeve’s eldest son was something of a scholar and had recently returned from university study on the continent. From what she remembered of Farquhar before he left, he’d always seemed rather dry and serious.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Cate was surprised when Farquhar offered to escort her back to Dunlyon. John seemed surprised as well, but mentioned that he and Gregor had business elsewhere. Cate was about to refuse when she chanced a glance at Gregor and reconsidered. She froze. He hadn’t moved very far from where she’d seen him last, but it was to whom he was talking, and the darkening expression on his face, that made her rather in a hurry to leave.
It was Màiri, which meant Cate was in trouble.
Seven
If Cate thought she could escape from him that easily, she’d better think again. Gregor now knew whom he had to thank for interfering with his assignations the past few days. God’s bones, the lass could give Robert the Bruce lessons in sabotage!
It took him a moment to recognize the man with whom she’d made her escape. He didn’t recall the reeve’s eldest son as being so tall—or so broad of shoulder. For a scholar, he looked like he spent most of his days out in the field or with a smith’s hammer in his hand. The observation wasn’t a welcome one. That Farquhar was both suitable and seemingly interested should have gladdened him—Farquhar was one of the men on Gregor’s list of potential suitors for her—but Gregor didn’t like the way the man was looking at her.
A lass could be disarmed by that friendly smile. Who knew what kind of trouble an innocent like Cate—inexperienced with the wicked ways of men—could find herself in? If Farquhar touched her, Gregor would string the pup up.
The vehemence of his reaction took him aback. He was only being protective—as her guardian, he told himself. He should be glad to find a suitor to take her off his hands. Then he could get down to focusing on getting his head back on straight. The next time the king needed him, he’d be ready. He wasn’t going to let him down again. But it took a long time for his fists to unclench after she’d made her swift escape.
As tempted as he was to go after her, his tenuous truce with the neighboring MacNabs required his attention.
He and John rode out to Lochay after church, but the meeting did not go well.
Kenneth MacNab of Lochay, a kinsman of the MacNab chief who’d stood with John of Lorn against Bruce at the Battle of Brander, was practically foaming at the mouth with outrage. “The termagant drew a dagger on my son when his back was turned. A dagger! The lass should be put to the stocks for what she did. You are fortunate I do not demand her arrest.”
Gregor’s jaw hardened, the only indication of how close he was to slamming his fist through the other man’s teeth at the idle threat. They both knew that there was no way in hell MacNab would draw more attention to his son’s humiliation—the incident had become public enough. And it was one thing for Gregor to call her a termagant; it was quite another for MacNab to do so.
“The lass is my responsibility,” Gregor said with surprising evenness. “If anyone is to punish her, it will be me.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?”
Gregor’s mouth thinned as he eyed the battle-scarred chieftain. Coarse, thickly built, and more wild and roughshod than most, MacNab was a handful of years older than Gregor and had retired from the battlefield, but was still a warrior with whom to reckon.
“Caitrina recounts the events differently.” As he’d been trying to avoid her, he’d actually gotten the story from John, along with confirmation from a surly, defensive Pip. “According to her, it was your son who pushed her down when her back was turned. She defended herself with the knife when he attempted to kick her while she was on the ground.”
“And you believe that? My son is twice her size. Not to mention the fact that she is a woman.”
If the bruises Gregor had seen on Dougal’s face when they arrived were any indication, MacNab believed it as well. But the clan’s pride had been damaged enough by a lass getting the better of Dougal in a fight, and MacNab was obviously trying to put his son in the best light by rearranging the facts.
“The lass is more than capable of defending herself against a lad Dougal’s size,” John said. “I taught her myself.”
MacNab turned on Gregor with fury. “And you permit this aberrant behavior? What kind of unnatural lass practices at warfare?”
Gregor’s eyes narrowed in warning. He understood MacNab’s anger, and the blow to his pride, but he would not hear Cate maligned. “I not only permit it, it was at my suggestion. I find nothing unnatural about a lass learning to defend herself against cowardly men who think it acceptable to hurt women.”
MacNab turned scarlet at the jab, which he knew was aimed at him as well. His wife’s bruises were well known.
If it weren’t for the meeting being held under truce, Gregor suspected MacNab would have drawn his sword—despite Gregor’s superior skill. “So you plan to do nothing?”
